Manifesto Destiny
by Frayed One
Summary: Anders' treatise on the plight of mages turns up all around Hawke's house, but there are so many other opportunities around Kirkwall to spread the word... Co-authored with Snarkoleptic.


**Title: **Manifesto Destiny

**Summary: ** Anders' treatise on the plight of mages turns up all around Hawke's house, but there are so many other opportunities around Kirkwall to spread the word... Co-authored with Snarkoleptic.

**Author's Notes:** Response to a prompt on the Dragon Age Kink Meme. The prompt:

_Anders is pretty tricky in shoving his manifestos in random corners of the Hawke household, but where else? He's gotta have copies hidden all around Kirkwall in the most inappropriate places..._

_Dunno if a prompt like this has been done before, but I'd like to see just where Anders could have hidden all those papers. In Cullen's boots? On Aveline's back? The more clever and random, the better._

**Snarkoleptic** discovered this prompt as it was posted, and ended up discussing possible scenarios with me. It snowballed from the three scenes Snark had planned into the co-authored series of discoveries you see below. Contained within are references to all sorts of in-game events, party banter, and, if you squint, you might catch a backhanded call-out to Asunder and references to the larger head-canon works by both authors involved in its creation.

Special thanks also to **FremenCredo** for the inspiration for a couple of scenes.

And now the fill. Reviews are always welcome!

* * *

><p><strong>1. Airborne Express<strong>

The dragon didn't fly as far south as Kirkwall. This one, in fact, didn't even make it as far as the Bone Pit before a tickle on the tail prompted a landing in a small forest clearing about halfway down the mountain.

On the ground, the surrounding trees bent inward under the pressure of the great magic that followed the dragon's landing as the enormous form compressed and reshaped into a slender female figure. Were there any doubt that a powerful spell had been worked here, any witnesses need only examine her perfect coif, with not a strand out of place.

Craning around to see what had fluttered against her tail in the air, Flemeth discovered a sheet of parchment impaled upon one of the plates below her knee. Examining the curious writings, the crone tossed her head back and indulged in a laugh, rich and long. She knew well how this stage of the game would play itself out, but the pawns upon the board did have their ways of surprising her.

At least she knew now the purpose behind the fast forward hop the mage had performed as she had taken wing from the graveyard of the People.

* * *

><p><strong>2. Today's My Jest Day<strong>

"We've been contracted to visit the Circle of Magi?" a voice asks hesitantly from behind her.

Madame Lusine is in no mood for idle questions, and this from one of her most biddable and popular entertainers does nothing to alleviate her sour spirits. "What are you on about?"

"It's only the schedule you added into the pay packet this week looks... strange. And you _know_ I'd be the last person to complain about _that_." Producing a sheet from the papers included with his weekly pay, Jethann gestures vaguely with a document written in an angular hand Lusine doesn't recognize.

Snatching it away from him, the matron of the Rose skims quickly through the text. "_No_, you will not be visiting the Circle. And no, I have no wish to learn what in _this_ senseless drivel would make you think otherwise. Upstairs with you now; if you're so set on screwing about, you can do it alongside someone with coin to spend."

* * *

><p><strong>3. Smuggled Packaging<strong>

Dwarf Dust. It wasn't right that something so wonderful should be marred by a nomenclature so... foul. Certainly it was the dwarves who unearthed this treasure, but was it not the Maker himself who gave it birth? Surely that alone warranted a title far more worthy of the glorious restoration of faith it could incite with the smallest of touches.

Blessed Ambrosia, perhaps? Sanctified, Virtuous Amelioration? Perhaps not. Pretty words were not necessary in Lowtown. No one cared whether god or demon brought salvation. No one saw beyond the package and the healing wrapped inside.

Samson lost the ability to further transform what was basically human failing into spiritual transcendence as soon as his eyes found the particular motion for which he'd been looking. A slight figure darted in and out of the milling crowd, stopping just in front of him and slipping a small package into his anxious hands. Delivery done, the child disappeared as quickly as she had come, no doubt off to parts of Kirkwall even less likely to see the sun.

The former templar hesitated for a moment and feared for her safety, but the concern was fleeting and forgotten the moment his ears heard the sound of the crinkling paper he'd absently tucked into his pocket.

Two quick turns down side alleys found him back in his favorite corner of his increasingly limited world, but he didn't care about that – not now. After passing a quick glance around to ensure none of the city guard patrolled outside the path of normal routine, he pulled forth salvation once again and made to avail himself of it – stopped by a jarring scrawl of hand written words across his wrapping paper.

"The oppression of mages stems from the fears of men, not the will of the Maker. What sort of nonsense is this?" His eyes darted around one last time, certain someone out there was having a great bloody laugh at his expense.

He certainly wouldn't be enjoying this now.

* * *

><p><strong>4. More Pathos<strong>

The melodious sounds of the Chant were not as soothing as they should have been. Even more vexing than this revelation was the fact that Sebastian couldn't quite put his finger on the reason _why_.

As the morning canticles drew to their close, he moved toward his private quarters intending to spend more time reflecting on why he suddenly found his vows more prison than reprieve.

Inside the closing door he caught sight of himself in the full length mirror near the rear wall. Vanity was a demon he fought daily, for he was a striking man even if he was nigh untouchable in the eyes of the Maker.

He started to remove his armor, pausing when he caught sight of the holy visage of Andraste that lent her divine beauty to his belt buckle. He'd never understand why it had become such a conversation piece. Without a doubt something about its placement just a hair above where anyone proper _should _be looking was... alluring... but it wasn't as though he'd chosen to put her there for just that reason.

As he ran his thumb along the edge to release the clasp, he found the folded paper.

_All their power and all their vanity_... He was familiar enough with that section of the chant and the handwriting scrawling it out before him to know _who_ had put it there. The question now became, how?

* * *

><p><strong>5. Proselytizing is Bad<strong>

"Really? _Really_?" Someone had riled up the drunk in the corner again, and Isabela knew enough at this point to understand that unless _someone_ figured out what bee had found its way into his bonnet, none of them would have a moment's peace for the rest of the night.

"Aww... did someone replace your ale with mulled cider again?" the pirate cooed, settling herself down into the chair at his side with her most compassionate smile.

"N-no! The ale is fine. Could use some more, actually. _Lots_ more."

Isabela shot Corff the sign that bade him bring more and keep them coming. If she couldn't talk him out of his newest fit, she'd simply have to lay him out under the table.

"Now, now. Why don't you tell me all about it?" Isabela pressed a new mug into his hand, and his face against her bosom – attempting not to gloat when he nuzzled against her a bit and settled almost immediately.

A few moments later he produced a tattered scrap of paper on which she could clearly make out the words, "it was in practice of such excesses, that the mighty found their fall".

"I'm going to kill that man..." Isabela muttered, giving Alistair's hair a couple of quick strokes before disposing of the offending article.

* * *

><p><strong>6. That Man is a Monster<strong>

It felt like hours had passed since the "help" sent from the city had gone into that damned cave. The sun's position in the sky made it clear that less than an hour had gone by, but the elf's nerves had been on edge since dawn in any case.

Most of the day she'd been missing, and there wasn't anything to be done but wait and worry. He had to suppress a clench in his gut when he heard stray rocks dislodged with movement at the mouth of the cave. Looking up, he saw Lia stepping out ahead of the four, being guided gently by one of the humans whose hand rested on her shoulder.

After watching the exchange between his daughter's saviors and the useless excuses for guards he'd been arguing with all morning, Elren embraced his daughter once again. In the midst of reassuring himself that she was back, she was safe, he realized her dress made a crinkly sound above one arm.

Turning her about, he read the parchment pinned to Lia's clothing. Well. Nyssa _had_ said that dress would make a statement.

* * *

><p><strong>7. Giving Them the Finger<strong>

The market for holy relics was just as profitable and dangerous as the market for any other high demand/low yield quantities, but it was far more likely to result in the manufacture of falsehoods or "duds".

It was for this reason that those dealing in the acquisition and delivery of such items were often hesitant about producing payment, at least until they could be certain what they'd been given was the bit of divine they had sought.

Sister Phylias snatched the small, light parcel from the agent's hands, tugging loose the parchment wrapper to reveal several small segments of bone cradled against the curling, handwritten accusation that "Kirkwall is built on a solid foundation of greed and human suffering."

* * *

><p><strong>8. Hard in Haine-Towne<strong>

His current company wasn't an accident. He needed a break from the blighted _turnips_ wandering around his exquisite courtyard, even if they could be somewhat enlightened in literature, at least. His most usual associates were discussing their good fortune in having a life so much better than they'd read about in accounts such as the recent _Hard in Hightown_ installment to circulate among the nobility.

"But what of the very latest installment?" Duke Prosper asked, pleased that he had managed again to be ahead of the literary curve as compared to the drunken sops who curried his favor at every opportunity. "One _must_ wonder how mages will feature, with the oppression mentioned in the most recent insert."

The incomprehension on their faces told Prosper all he needed to know. He would have to remember to write his gratitude to the unfortunately turnip author for giving him the status of receiving an advance copy.

* * *

><p><strong>9. It's a Keeper's Job to Remember<strong>

"Master Ilen," Keeper Marethari hailed. "Have you a moment?"

"Of course," the master crafter replied. He was usually pleased to pass the time in conversation with Marethari, but there was something in her expression just now that gave him a moment's pause.

"I'm afraid I haven't been able to gift my new First with the Sylvanwood ring delivered to me last evening."

"Why ever not, Keeper?" Ilen thought he should have known better. Delegating the creation of such an artifact to his eldest apprentice had been meant as a rite of passage, but he should never have thought the boy was ready for such responsibility. They were _never_ ready for the next step of the craft.

Saying nothing, the Keeper simply handed the ring to the crafter and waited.

Bellowing for his apprentice, Ilen shouted, "_Where_ in the tale of _Fen'Harel_ do we see mention of _shemlen_ mages?"

Not bothering to wait for a response, Ilen opened the chest containing the most sacred text entrusted to the crafters, that tale of the Dread Wolf to be retold in the wood for all Keepers. Resting atop the tale, he found his answer.

* * *

><p><strong>10. Burning Bridges<strong>

"Sister..."

"_What_ is it now?" Robes swirling around her ankles, Sister Petrice whirled in the empty hovel to face Ser Varnell. "Now is not the time for you to figure out you have something to say."

Quietly, Varnell reached into his pocket for the parchment he'd plucked out of the Qunari's collar when he'd seen it as the group of ruffians had descended into the sewers. "We've nearly finished scrubbing the place, and I believe you need to see this."

Scanning the writing, Petrice felt a certain satisfaction. She'd known a loose monster-mage like Ketojan was dangerous, and her conviction only redoubled at the thought that it was capable of writing in the common tongue.

"How fortunate they'll all be with the Maker before this has a chance to go further," she declared with a nod, tossing the document into the small fire she'd allowed to remain. "The Chantry could ill afford the spread of - why, it's my helpful associates from the streets..."

* * *

><p><strong>11. Idol Fancy<strong>

The dwarf was greedy. While he could blame a certain amount of his motivation on the insidious lure of the idol, in truth what had pushed him to betray and entomb his own brother was the simple knowledge that his profit could be far more expansive if he wasn't required to share.

Bartrand ran his fingers over the dusty old relic one last time, ensuring himself that it was unmarred and primed for the marketplace. Few scratches, no visible cracks or fissures, and... one lone scrap of paper?

"A wizard did it?" He read aloud before crumpling it up and tossing the paper to the ground.

* * *

><p><strong>12. The Yawning Position<strong>

Courtesy demanded a response, damn it, and writing such a missive would require actually _opening_ the package that had rested under his bunk for most of the week. He could only imagine what might be contained in the wrapper, after all the needling the sender had given him before he'd joined the Order.

With a sigh, Carver sat on his bed and hauled the package up into his lap. Whatever scandal might come so soon after his vows, it was best to get it done and over with. Maybe, in his response, he could hint to Isabela that the entire thing had been confiscated by the Knight-Captain - or, no, better to go with the Knight-Commander, as mention of Cullen would only encourage the woman - before he had a chance to see it.

A slight feeling of dread settled in his gut as he tugged at the strings wrapping the package. Justified dread, he found, as the cover of the _Carta Sutra_ greeted him from underneath the wrapping as he cleared it away. Yes, he had expected this, which made the flush creeping up his neck anyway that much more aggravating.

"Now _that's_ a care package."

Carver jumped at the sound of Ser Moira's voice behind him, sending the book scattering to the floor where it opened to a very graphic illustration. And just _why_ did it have to be _dwarves_?

"I, ah... Um..."

Thoroughly amused, Moira reassured the newest recruit that _everyone_ knew someone who would send something thoroughly inappropriate within a fortnight of their arrival at the Gallows. Though as she glanced at the page that had fallen out of the book on its way to the floor and concealed it about her person to consider later, she thought she just might have another candidate to help with her end of getting the mages out, should any of the current group be unable to continue. She'd have to share this with Thrask...

* * *

><p><strong>13. Something <strong>_**Dirty**_

_Puzzles are so frustrating_, Merrill thinks as she sits among countless shards of glass on the floor in her bedroom. It's only made worse, anyway, by the fact that not all of them were wrapped. She hopes none have fractured beyond repair or gone missing.

She's spent so long trying to piece the _Eluvian_ back together, and she won't stop now. Even if the little pieces do cut her palm so very often. She has the _arulin'holm_, now, and it will _work_. It has to.

It is the work of hours, but the _Eluvian_ finally begins to take shape in front of her. All her work is about to pay off, she just _knows_. Glancing absently about, she reaches for a wrapped shard, taking less care than she would with one that held an exposed edge. It slices her hand anyway, and draws her attention to the parchment - not cloth, as she had assumed - that had been tied around the sharp glass.

Reading the words that haven't been obscured by the blood from her cut, she thinks she isn't the only one in Kirkwall to know a thing or two about audacity.

* * *

><p><strong>14. First Post<strong>

The Guard-Captain's instructions were always crystal clear. Aveline simply could not understand why nearly everyone retrieving their orders from the board today found it necessary to stop in and _make sure_ she was certain she understood what she had posted.

"For the last time, Lieutenant Harley, _yes_. I am absolutely certain that I require your attention with regard to the latest bit of raiding in the cliffs." Aveline sighed. She was not known for her patience, and the modest amount she did have had long been depleted.

"Y-yes, Guard-Captain. Beg pardon, but it's not the orders I came to question... rather, the addendum." The woman shifted anxiously under the captain's suspicious stare.

"_What_ addendum?"

Harley disappeared for a moment, returning with a piece of paper Aveline did not remember hanging.

"Every despot starts somewhere." She growled, not even bothering to look back up and address her charge in response.

* * *

><p><strong>15. Physician's Note<strong>

He'd have stopped long before now if the risk of getting caught with his hands in his pants - even for medicinal purposes - wouldn't have been more than his beleaguered career could bear. Clutching the ceramic jar - hidden in a small bag, of course, to avoid giving away just _what_ he was carrying to those who might recognize him in his travels.

It was amazing that he'd had the foresight to bring the bag, what with the persistent distraction of the _itch_.

It was one thing to be recognized by some of the ladies at the docks. It was another matter entirely to be seen carrying something so scandalous. Surely those who would whisper would say the scandal lay more in what he was carrying that prompted his trip to collect the jar in the first place, which made it all the more necessary to conceal his parcel.

Making his way into the Keep, he decided he couldn't hold out for the longer trip to his personal quarters. Not when such a sensitive area suffered under such a _burn_.

Barricading himself in his office, Seneschal Bran locked the door, dropped the jar's cap on his desk and reached desperately for the salve that would relieve the lingering symptoms from his last trip past Lowtown. Shocked, he discovered that in his haste he had somehow managed to acquire what felt like a paper cut on his finger.

The sharp pain didn't stop him reaching to apply the salve with all the haste he could manage, but with his free hand he reached again into the jar and found a roll of parchment standing within the unguent. Reading its politically charged contents, he hung his head.

He'd been so concerned with the sting he'd just relieved, it was an utter surprise to find that his frequent trips to the docks had finally come back to bite him in quite a different way from behind. So... _this_ was to be the price of his continued indiscretion, was it?

* * *

><p><strong>16. Preaching to the Choir<strong>

The visitor to the clinic leaned against a pillar, perusing again the document she'd been handed by one of her so-helpful visitors. She'd scarce have believed what had been found, had this particular helper not been thoroughly _dis_possessed of a smart mouth, unlike others who had recently come to her aid.

As the healer finished with his patient, Mistress Selby held out the document and raised a brow. "Really, love? On the back of the board? We _know_."

* * *

><p><strong>17. Justice Cannot Sleep Forever<strong>

Learning to read had not been easy, particularly when his only source of encouragement and support insisted on lounging about sans pants in front of his hearth. Hawke had given him the damnable object, but clearly couldn't be bothered to help in the processing of the thing.

"A great high-em-en, a great..."

"Hymn, Fenris. That word is hymn. Hymen is a totally different and much less _lyrical_ object." Isabela chuckled, the waggle of her eyebrows making it obvious that even if he'd doubted it, the pirate's insinuation was, of course, sexual.

"Those who had be-been slah-vuh... those who had been..."

"Slaves. Danarius had to have taught you that one." The glare she received for that one was easily worth the... punishment... she might receive later.

"Some things are were-se... some things are worse than..."

"Wait, let me see that one!" Isabela snatched the book from the elf's hands, having heard that particular phrasing before, and snapped the volume closed when the messy scrawl proved her right. "I think we've read enough for the day."

* * *

><p><strong>18. Sometimes They Come Back<strong>

A good herbalist prided himself on the speed with which he could procure even the most rare of ingredients and knew the extent of value to place on those who would and _could_ find them.

Hawke had been paid well for the first _varterral_ heart, and he expected equal compensation for the second. He didn't know how often these things chose to rise from the dead, but he couldn't imagine that sort of thing happened very often if the look on Solivitus' face was any indication.

"Three sovereigns _and_ I'll toss in a couple of rock armor potions, but that's my final offer."

"Three sovereigns will hardly cover the cost of removing whatever goop this is that undead insect insists on vomiting forth onto my robes anytime I go near it." Hawke snorted, tossing the item casually into the air. "I'd suggest you dig a bit deeper into those expansive pockets of yours, else I shall take my heart and go."

The mage drove a hard bargain, and knew the herbalist could not afford to let an ingredient so difficult to acquire slip out of his grasp. His only recourse was capitulation.

"Fine." The merchant huffed, producing twice as much coin and the proffered potions. "But you can keep the wrapper."

Hawke looked puzzled, cocking up an eyebrow in confusion as he snagged what he'd believed to be plain brown paper from the herbalist's fingers.

_Then a voice whispered within their hearts_...Hawke just sighed, and walked away.

* * *

><p><strong>19. Papa <strong>**Don't**** Preach**

The modest circlet of office rose and fell as Viscount Dumar massaged his temples. He had been filled with such hope for his son as he'd read the letter from the boy, full of contrition and expressing the his desire to reconcile. It wasn't an end to the scrutiny he had anticipated so anxiously; rather, he had felt sharply the rift growing between them and had long awaited its end.

So eagerly, in fact, that he didn't notice until it attached itself to his fingers the tacky remains of what appeared to have been, at one point, some sort of soothing substance around which the letter was written. And then his hopes had been dashed.

On the reverse of the heartfelt letter renouncing his support of the damnable Qunari was a treatise on the treatment of mages that would in no way go over well with the public _or_ with the Chantry. He was at a complete loss as to what to do.

Perhaps he should consult with Bran in the morning.

* * *

><p><strong>20. Mining for Mages<strong>

"Are you the smith?"

"I'm _a_ smith." was the man's response.

It had been a long day for Hawke already. Sorting out riddles with some strange, bald man over a shipment of pick-axes for the mine he'd never really wanted anything to do with was the last thing he wanted to do in finishing it off.

"Is Smith your name, or your profession?" Hawke couldn't help but ask the question as he handed over the parchment along with the coin required to complete his order.

"Yup."

There was no further response. The man just handed over the merchandise requested and stood silently waiting for the person, no longer a customer, to turn and begone.

Hawke wasn't at all sorry the _smith_ would be forced into reading some random segment of Anders' manifesto when he processed his payslips later that night.

* * *

><p><strong>21. Arishocking<strong>

The heathen Dumar had invited all of this upon Kirkwall, the Arishok thought as the head of the city-state's former head bounced down the stairs toward the corralled nobles. One of the female _bas_ in the crowd clutched at the string of pearls around her neck as it rolled to a stop against her delicately clad feet.

Insanity.

The envoy from the viscount's office had made no mention of certain parts of the correspondence Dumar had sent when he arrived at the compound. Ultimately, it had been decided that this Hawke - this _basalit-an_ - was above such foolishness as had been contained in the appeal for the "release" of the _viddathari_ Seamus, whose proper role had yet to be determined.

Of course the _viddathari_ had disavowed any knowledge of the letter renouncing the Qun and its teachings. Its presence on the reverse of such heresy written against mages had really been the undoing of the city-state, the viscount's privilege having been taken too far with such unholy accusations against one of the Qun.

With such a call to action as was implied in the missive, however, the Arishok was certain the Tome would be back in the hands of those responsible for its teachings very, very quickly.

* * *

><p><strong>22. Creed Griffons<strong>

_Now or never._

He wishes he hadn't allowed the event to be organized _here_, of all places, but what's done is done and his own name is being called from the list of participants by the dwarf who wanted to see what kind of talent there is to mine in Kirkwall.

It's a good thing the tavern is dark. It's a good thing _his shirt_ is dark. He can't believe he's doing this, but the nervous sweat that pools under his arms tells him he _is_ doing it, and it feels oddly liberating.

No one has thrown any food, at least, which he takes as a good sign as he winds the epic companion piece to his life's work to a close, speaking an unfamiliar rhythm and wishing the damnable dwarf had agreed to read it out for him.

_He's off and flyin'_

_As he runs_

_The air around the track_

_He's jammin' through the skyway_

_Like he's never comin' back_

_Adventure's waiting_

_Just ahead_

_Go Speed Griffon (go!)_

As his recitation stumbles to a stop, only to be met with silence from the crowd, Corff notices another sheet attached to the end of his ballad, further stanzas he doesn't recognize but in his haste to get some kind of reaction out of the crowd he reads them out anyway.

_We ask not that the mage should lie_

_As lies the Chantry, at their ease..._

Utterly perplexed, Corff allows the latest page to drop in the fire that lights the makeshift stage before he flees to the safety of his bar.

* * *

><p><strong>23. Juggling Act<strong>

It was an odd gift, to be sure, and he wished for what had to be the hundredth time that he hadn't chosen such a public venue to approach such a... loud man for aid. There really was no telling who had overheard the conversation, so neither _that_ man nor his companions could be blamed openly for this, even if it had arrived with a note offering belated condolences for the death of his son.

All reason dictated that it _must_ have been the adventurers behind this gift, particularly when the ballad marked by an errant page was decorated in the margins with crudely realized drawings of small rodents. Never mind that the ballad itself was titled _Le Fils du Geôlier Petits_, though whether they intended _petty_ as a description of the son or the jailer was evidently open to interpretation.

And then there was the bookmark itself, which read, simply: _L'oppression des__mages__découle de la__crainte__des hommes__, et non pas __la volonté du__Créateur._ As dangerous as things had become with Meredith rampaging about the city in her quest to eliminate the mages, Magistrate Vanard now had a new nightmare.

Of course, should he be questioned about his possession of a text on the oppression of mages and the will of the Maker, he could always defend himself with context, couldn't he? Who - well, other than a random miscreant flagged down for discreet aid - would believe him interested in anything that came to him in association with Orlesian ballads _or_ small rodents?

* * *

><p><strong>24. Asit Tal-eb<strong>

It had cost them many lives, that of the Arishok among them, for the Qunari to return the Tome of Koslun to its rightful spot of reverence – but such sacrifices were both expected and lauded in the eyes of the Qun.

Without careful inspection, the Ariqun could not be certain that the tome had not been damaged at some point during battle, theft, or even the return journey. So it was with great care that she thumbed through the time worn pages, searching for even the smallest sign of anything still amiss.

It was during this process that she found, tucked within the last few pages, a poorly written missive with regard to freedoms of those among the Qunari rank cursed with magic most foul.

_Ridiculous, spineless, mind-controlled, senseless piece of shit arguments_...

Clearly this was one more mage begging to be collared.

* * *

><p><strong>25. Keeping Vigil<strong>

Nathaniel was angry. Unsurprising, really. Nathaniel was almost always angry, or frustrated, or brooding, or something in that school of emotion. Being trapped in the Deep Roads with the Commander and Carver bloody Hawke, of all people, was not likely to make that any better.

Somehow managing to get himself separated from them wasn't helping matters. They were tucked away somewhere far beyond his reach, on the opposite side of a rather large collection of darkspawn, if his ability to read the call echoing through their tainted blood could be trusted. If they weren't fighting, they were running. Nathaniel wouldn't consider options beyond that. Any activities he could come up with other than those choices would do nothing to clear his focus or soothe his temper.

He dipped into an antechamber, hoping to find a hidden passage or collapsed bit of wall he could exploit in his efforts to trace a path back to his fellow Wardens – but there was nothing but detritus from some long gone campfire and bits of paper covered in handwriting he vaguely recognized.

_You should have stopped to ask for directions_...

"If I get out of here, I'm going to kill that bloody mage."

* * *

><p><strong>26. Find Your Own<strong>

It wasn't the first time she'd entered the Black Emporium, yet the Warden-Commander still found the otherworldly ranting from Xenon more than a little unsettling. She wished Hawke would get on with whatever he'd been doing preening in front of that mirror for the last hour so they could be done with the blasted hole and get back to business in the world above.

She paced along beside the bronze visage of Andraste again, rolling her eyes when the Antiquarian felt the need to remind her _one more time_ not to fondle the damn thing. She'd never had any intention of doing it, but her mind went back to a time when she might have – or at least laughed with the mocking suggestion that one of her companions sought a moment alone with the Maker's bride.

She turned back toward Hawke, attempting to shove the memory back down where it belonged, before a small slip of paper caught her eye. Sure, she'd have to violate the holy body of Andraste to retrieve it, but she was far too curious to leave it be now that she'd seen it – regardless what the cranky, desiccated owner might have to say.

It was a brief verse from the Chant that even she in her cynical, bitter heart could not fail to recognize. _Marvel at perfection, for it is fleeting. _And then at the bottom, scrawled in a sloppy hand she knew far too well, two simple yet heartbreaking words; _For Elissa_.

* * *

><p><strong>27. Cargo Manifesto<strong>

It was late, and Aden was tired as he made his way through the last shipping manifest to be verified before he could retire for the evening.

Six crates of elfroot – check.

Four crates of spindleweed – check.

These Deep Mushrooms seem to have gone... bad... and will have to be returned and replaced. That's at least another two weeks' time lost.

He sighed, and scratched long fingers through his hair before going back to the stack of paper.

Deathroot, _seven_ crates – who needs that much of this stuff?

"More likely to be shanked in a bar than eaten by an abomination?" Aden flipped the paper over several more times, attempting to decipher the rest of the manuscript before tossing it to the side and going back to the rotten mushrooms.

* * *

><p><strong>28. Function Before Form<strong>

The Lowtown shack was empty now that the family he'd believed he never wanted had moved on without him. Carver was off who knew where with the Grey Wardens and Hawke – well, the two of them had never seen eye to eye, so when the mage had finally made his fortune and settled into the old Amell Estate in Hightown, there had been little use left for a blood tie grown weak with time and distance.

Gamlen never had much to begin with, and now that Leandra was no longer alive to bridge the gap between himself and his nephews, he was left with only the few scant possessions he hadn't bartered or sold for want of alcohol or the company of loose women.

One of those possessions was his Wallop mallet, still hung in a spot of pride on the rear wall of the main room. He took it down, intent on reliving – if only for a moment – one of the few times in his life he had been both truly happy and truly proud.

A small sheet of paper fluttered loose from the anchoring behind it and drifted to the floor, the scratchy handwritten sentence upon it nearly illegible but for a short few words clearly meant for his eyes.

_A learned child is a blessing upon his parents and onto the Maker. Find Charade. Don't screw up this time._

* * *

><p><strong>29. A Sheaf of What?<strong>

_My dearest son,_

_While the goats we cannot keep in a city home did fetch a good price, we are concerned at the implied announcement that a dowry should be paid for you prior to your wedding. Of course we trust that Aveline is a suitable match; we certainly didn't raise a fool._

_Perhaps, when we arrive in Kirkwall for the ceremony, you can explain to us the enclosed document, however. I understand you'll be marrying quite the political figure, Donnic, but I'm not certain a sheaf of anything, much less wheat, should be transported bouquet-style wrapped in such language. We have, of course, heard of Aveline, even here, and are concerned that this masculine hand may be hers._

_We will anxiously await your answer when we arrive in the coming spring._

_Yours with love,_

_Mum_

* * *

><p><strong>30. <strong>_**Orlesians**_

"_Talia!_" The shriek sounded as soon as the door closed behind the departing Champion, the mistress of the house on a tear through the estate to find the girl who had caused such embarrassment to her hospitality. Her husband, who a moment ago had been escorting her for a lie-down, knew better than to intervene.

The girl was discovered in the hallway, shaking like a leaf - as was the leaf of parchment clutched in her hands. Dulci de Launcet snatched it away, berating the girl for allowing herself to be distracted and barely hearing the whispered excuse that the document in question had been found pinned to the back of the manservant who had admitted the Champion into their home.

A moment later, she stumbled against her husband. "Guillaume! Darling! Zees paper is _so_ poorly worded!"

* * *

><p><strong>31. Andraste's Ass!<strong>

_Curse or blessing? The Maker bade the unworthy to decide._

_The Band of Three falls silent when justice is served._

_Those once held in chains, will now roam free._

_Salvation is found in the most unlikely of places._

A simple riddle that led Hawke and his companions to the giant golden statue of Andraste in the dead of night – wondering exactly how they were going to retrieve the small page stuck in the cleft of her holy ass, and how Anders had managed to get it up there in the first place.

* * *

><p><strong>32. Message in a Bottle<strong>

_Knight-Commander,_

_I wish to invite you to join me this evening for prayer and conversation. I know you feel that one in your station should be most resolute in your duties, when in fact those of us who bear the greatest responsibility also bear the greatest burdens of faith. Please rest assured that I am not alarmed by what was very likely an accidental inclusion in this week's forwarded invoices for the shipment of lyrium to the Gallows. Rather, I understand your conflict and wish to pray with you, that the Maker might allow us to see the right course._

_In Anticipation and Faith,_

_Grand Cleric Elthina_

* * *

><p><strong>33. Divine Intervention<strong>

_Grand Cleric, _

_I must thank you for forwarding to me a copy of the book which has been circulating around the Free Marches. _Holy in Hightown_, while certainly entertaining, is right to cause you concern about the perception of the Chantry among the flock entrusted to you for care and spiritual keeping. _

_However, the leaflet discovered within the pages - fortunately, by myself - could have been cause for some concern had it been seen by anyone involved in the delivery. My faith in you remains unbroken, Elthina, but please take care to thoroughly examine all suspect materials to come to your attention. It would not do for something like this to be revealed under the guise of the Maker's name._

_Yours in Faith,_

_Divine Justinia V_

* * *

><p><strong>34. Kitchen Sink<strong>

That bitch had taken everything, but then... didn't they always?

Pirates weren't supposed to have scruples. They weren't supposed to have second thoughts that had them _releasing_ cargo and refusing to sell merchandise that could put him into retirement in an attempt to save lives. Or, one life in particular.

But Isabela had. She'd done all that and more, and now Castillon was left in his near wrecked warehouse shipless, pantsless and lusting for vengeance.

He over read the note he could only assume had been left as some sort of clue one more time.

"And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."

What did that even mean?

* * *

><p><strong>35. Truth Unsought<strong>

It was over, but only just begun.

The Orlesian beauty tucked a curl of red hair behind her ear and stared out into the fog of a new dawn, wondering if Thedas could weather this storm with its heroes gone to ground.

There had been a time she'd have known where to find The Warden-Commander, but those days were long lost. Sides had been chosen, lines had been drawn, voices of dissent had grown louder as years passed, and wherever it was her old friend had gone, Leliana could no longer follow.

She flipped to the last records in the book, surprised when a small slip of paper came loose and dropped to the ground.

_Justice is served_.

It was over, but had only just begun.


End file.
